by Lynn Kerstan
Startled, he looked down at her earnest, anxious face and the brief magic of the dance evaporated. There was no mistaking the fear in her brown eyes. He felt suddenly cold.
“At home, My Lord,” she urged. “Is everything all right at home?”
“Yes, of course it is. Do smile at me, Miss Lamb, or at the very least try not to look as if you expected me to strike you.”
Her lips curved in a mockery of a smile and held there. “You have been away so long,” she said between her teeth. “I was afraid something had gone wrong.”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “I spent three days inspecting your surprisingly well-ordered farm and then took the opportunity to visit friends. This is not the place to discuss business, my dear, but I have left sufficient funds to ease your staff through the next weeks, and that will suffice until better arrangements can be made.”
She stumbled slightly. “Better arrangements?”
The Earl spun her into a distracting figure that left her breathless. “Tomorrow,” he said firmly, “I shall call on you in the morning.”
“Why not tonight?” she begged. “We could leave right now.”
“In the morning,” he repeated “But you may sleep the sleep of the innocent, for I promise you there will be no lectures.”
She smiled, visibly relieved “That will be a change.”
Staunching a bark of laughter, he gazed at her upturned face. “You look very lovely tonight, Miss Lamb. I nearly failed to recognize you.” Feeling his cheeks go hot, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Ah, that did not come out exactly as I’d intended.” To his vast relief, Jillian giggled endearingly.
“I scarcely recognize myself these days,” she admitted, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Too bad you missed the early excavation of the ruins, especially when Monsieur Flambeau got first sight of my hair and practically cried Lady Margaret was compelled to double his salary and pay in advance. Then he went at me like a man pruning topiary in Kew Gardens.”
“Monsieur Flambeau? Is that really his name?”
“Not likely. Between the mon Dieus and quelle horreurs, there was a blimey or two. But he did rather well, considering what he had to work with, and even condescended to instruct my abigail in a few simple arrangements. She is responsible for what you see tonight, because his taste is rather more . . . flamboyant.”
Mark winced. “Oh, bad pun, brat.”
With care, Jillian stepped on his toe. “I’ve been saving it for you.”
“Have you missed me, then?” he asked lightly. “Like a toothache,” she retorted.
Chuckling, the Earl drew her an inch closer. “Your dance instructor certainly worked wonders,” he said, hearing the implied insult and thinking he could use a lesson or two on how to compliment a lady.
“I no longer belch at the table, either,” she informed him sweetly. “Perhaps we would do better talking about you, My Lord, since you refuse to discuss what I’m aching to hear. Will you tell me of your other adventures? You said that you visited friends.”
“So I did. The Marquess of Lassiter for one.” He felt her lithe body tense. “You know him?”
“Barely.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “He is a swine.”
“A thoroughly unpleasant fellow,” Mark agreed. “I knew his son at Cambridge and thought I should stop by, but he was too far gone in brandy for conversation.”
Relaxing in his embrace, Jillian tilted her head. “Who else?”
She was clearly anxious to change the subject and so was he. “Another friend from the university, Lord Kerrington.” He blinked at the sudden moisture in his eyes. “I spent a week with Robin and his new wife. It was probably the best week of my life.” Jillian gazed up at him in surprise. “I’ll tell you more about him tomorrow,” he promised, wanting very much to tell someone about Robin. “But now, sadly, our waltz is coming to an end.” He swept her into a last flourish, enjoying the feel of her warm body pressed against him for a moment, and abruptly set her away. “It was a pleasure,” he said formally, executing an even-more-formal bow.
“So it was,” Jillian allowed. “I enjoyed it very much.”
“You needn’t sound surprised, my dear.”
“Not that,” she said pensively, waving her hand. “It’s just . . . I’ve never before seen you smile.”
“Ah, that is not at all the truth,” he protested. “I smile a great deal.”
“Not with your eyes.” A gloved finger touched his forearm. “It’s rather nice.”
Feeling his ears burn, Mark swung his gaze from her solemn appraisal to the pack of hyenas skulking on the perimeter of the dance floor. Waiting for the jackal to clear the field, he surmised. “I see that I must relinquish you to another partner, Miss Lamb,” he said, “lest I find myself facing pistols at dawn.”
“You could face me at dawn,” she suggested. “We farm girls rise with the roosters, you know.”
“There are no roosters in Berkeley Square,” he informed her sternly, “and eleven o’clock is the proper hour for a morning call.”, .
“Well, London gentlemen are proper slugabeds,” she accused. “But I shall contrive to be available at eleven,” she added hastily when he stared with disapproval down his long nose.
“Alone, if you please. Except for Margaret, of course.”
“Of course. A proper hour with a proper chaperone.”
He noted, with a baffling sense of gratitude, that his little termagant was not altogether tamed. “Be off with you, imp. And behave yourself.”
Jillian favored him with a pert curtsey, a very impertinent grin, and left him standing alone.
Even as he backed away the scavengers leapt forward, with Ivor Malory breaking through the pack to claim Jillian’s hand. The Earl scowled. What was he up to, making mooneyes at a chit nearly half his age? Blackstone nodded vaguely in Mark’s direction before returning his attention—bold, possessive attention—to his partner, and Jillian’s face was glowing as they moved into the set. For a moment it seemed as if all the light in the room was concentrated on that one spot.
Mark shook his head to clear it. Lord, he must be tired. Suddenly, he wasn’t up to making the obligatory rounds, and the last person he wanted to see was Margaret, who practically overnight had transformed a milkmaid into the Belle of the Ball.
Prepare to be surprised, she’d warned him. That was a bloody understatement. He was stupefied. Dumbfounded. Bedazzled. And unaccountably resentful, like a child whose special toy had been taken away from him. A sure sign he was reeling with exhaustion, thought the Earl grimly.
Of its own accord, his gaze swung again to the dance floor and caught Jillian swaying like a daffodil in Malory’s arms, her eyes lifted worshipfully to the man’s insipidly grinning face. Yes, a headache was definitely coming on.
Damn his forethought in sending Angela a message to expect him. He wasn’t up to that, either, he realized, and the thought was more than a little troubling. Hours ago he’d been uncomfortably anxious to put an end to weeks of celibacy.
Oh, yes, a very bad headache indeed.
Well, tomorrow he would smooth the Swan’s feathers with an expensive apology, but until the appointment with Miss Lamb was out of the way, he couldn’t concentrate on pleasure. Devil take the chit. What a blasted nuisance she was. He could hardly wait to be rid of her.
Disregarding the gossip he knew would follow his late arrival, sole dance, and immediate departure, the Earl stalked to the foyer in search of his hat and cape.
Chapter Seventeen
MARK SLEPT FITFULLY, despite a long soaking bath and his familiar hard mattress. Since he’d neglected to leave instructions for a morning call, it was well past nine o’clock when he awoke. Fumbling over the nightstand for his watch, he blistered the empty room with several choice French oaths. Miss Lamb would likely have
a few choice words of her own to offer when he arrived late for their meeting. Where the hell was his valet? Rubbing his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat with his face buried in his hands.
Dimly, he heard a knock at the door. ‘‘Come,” he growled, although Jaspers was already in, lofting a silver tray on one white-gloved hand and looking very put out. Mark glanced at him over a bare shoulder. “What is it, man? And where is Foxworth?”
“I’m sure I do not know, Your Lordship. Several gentlemen have called. They await you in the parlor.” Jaspers dropped the tray on the nightstand with a thud.
“Good God, it’s the crack of dawn. What do they all want?” Sifting through the pile of engraved cards, he uncovered Ivor Malory’s name. A chill settled on the back of his neck like a cold, wet towel.
“Shall I inform them you are not at home, My Lord?”
“A bit late for that, don’t you think? Tell them I shall be delayed at least an hour. Maybe they’ll all go away. And, Jaspers, locate Foxworth immediately. Then bring me shaving water, coffee, a plate of fresh fruit, and toast.”
The butler strutted out, and Mark buried his head once more in his hands. No. It couldn’t be.
But it was. When he opened the parlor door an hour later, not one of the men had left and two more had joined them. Bristling like hedgehogs, eight impeccably dressed rivals eyed each other in stony silence while Ivor Malory lounged at ease in a comfortable chair, vastly amused. He rose when Mark came in and the others popped up, too, nearly at attention. Sixteen eager eyes and one pair of sardonic black ones fixed on him intently. It felt like one of those nightmares where he’d forgot to wear trousers.
Young Viscount Malmsley broke the awkward silence. “I was first,” he blurted out, determined to hold his place.
The Earl sighed. “Very well. What is your business, Malmsley?”
Scarlet flags hoisted on his cheeks. “May we be private, My Lord?”
When seven heads bobbed in agreement, Mark knew he was facing a long ordeal. “If you wish. But I’ll see Blackstone first. You next and the others by rank, if only to spare the furniture from a brawl. If any of you prefer not to wait, make an appointment with my secretary.” As if pulled by a single string, all heads swung refusal and Mark sighed again. “As you will, gentlemen. Ivor, join me in the library.”
Chuckling softly, Malory lowered himself into the same wing chair that had dwarfed Jillian a month earlier, while the Earl prowled the room restlessly, fingering vases and curtains.
“Et tu, Ivor?” he muttered. “I should never have thought it.”
“Nor I,” the Marquess agreed, flipping open his enameled snuffbox. “Apparently, you have guessed my errand.”
“Guessed? The scent of rut will hang in that parlor for months.”
“Tsk tsk, Del. We are civilized men.” Languidly, Ivor inhaled a pinch of his special blend. “Of course you’ll send Kelton to the devil, possibly Gilmore, and in your place I shouldn’t encourage Rotherham. The rest of us are well-to-middling eligible and can be dispatched with your blessing to take our chances with the lady. If you require a formal declaration, permit me to humbly request leave to pay my addresses to your lovely ward, for I very much hope she will do me the honor of becoming my wife. I shan’t bore you with my credentials or bank account, but my intentions are all that you could wish.” He grinned. “Truth to tell, old thing, I am smitten.”
“SMITTEN!” THE EARL banged down the porcelain shepherdess he’d been holding, snapping her foot off. She toppled over and rolled to the carpet. “With Jillian?”
“I must confess, she was a surprise to us all. You never mentioned her, Del.”
“I never knew she existed. And since when are you hanging out for a wife, Malory? You always said you’d never marry again. No reason to, with three heirs lined up at Oxford. That’s what you said.” Damn but he sounded petulant.
“Meant it, too,” Blackstone conceded affably. “I’m forty-three years old, fond of the boys, and when Barbara died it was my firm intent to settle into crusty bachelorhood and dandle grandchildren on my knee. Now I find myself wanting to burp a daughter or two.”
“Devil take it, Ivor, you can’t have known the chit above a few days.”
“Three weeks,” Malory replied, surprise in his voice. “The first I was intrigued, the second fascinated, and the third head over heels. At my age.” He shook his head wonderingly. “In spite of the traffic, I’ve managed to spend a considerable amount of time with Miss Lamb.”
Mark cleared his throat. “Does she . . . ah . . . return your regard?”
Frowning, Malory swished one hand through his thick black hair. “As to that, I cannot say. When I’m with her, I feel like the only man on the face of the earth, And then, watching her with someone else—for believe me, Del, I watch her closely—I know that man is experiencing exactly the same thing. Devilish thing, this love business. Last week I was a hair from calling out Jeremy Rawlings. The puppy had her backed into a corner on the terrace, trying to kiss her.”
Rawlings was a dead man, the Earl decided instantly.
“She slapped him, of course,” Ivor continued with a laugh, “and stomped on his foot for good measure.
Later I saw them dancing together like none of it ever happened.”
Rawlings would die slowly, Mark determined. First torture, followed by a bullet in the groin.
“So what do you say?” Malory’s deep voice was uncharacteristically intense. “Have you any objections to my courting her?”
The Earl crossed to the window and stared into the garden. Ivor had been a good and faithful husband to his first wife, and he would be the same to Jillian. He was strong enough to keep her in line and kind enough to make her happy. What a stroke of unexpected luck. Blackstone was exactly what he’d hoped to find . . . the perfect solution to his problem. He should be elated. “But your sons are nearly as old as she is,” he heard himself protest. “And her own child will never inherit.”
“Do you really think that will matter to her?” the Marquess asked quietly.
Of course it would not. “If she wants you, Ivor, I’ll not stand in your way,” Mark said without expression. “I’d have no leg to stand on if I tried, and Jillian could not do better.” Pivoting, he fixed his friend with a genuinely puzzled gaze. “But will you tell me something? Between us?”
Ivor crossed his long legs at the ankles and tilted his head in surprise. Delacourt never spoke personally about anything. “If it will not betray Jillian’s confidence . . .” he said slowly.
“Not at all. The thing is, I cannot imagine what you see in her. There were nine men in that room, Ivor, and God only knows how many would-be suitors haven’t heard I’m back in town. What did she do? I mean, she’s no beauty, although she looks better than she did when I left. And she has no accomplish-merits. Not that she isn’t smart, mind you. Dashed clever female. But the things she talks about! Pigs and cows and sheep.”
Malory stood with a laugh. “Fascinating creatures, sheep. Do you know what happens when a ewe has triplets?”
Mark stared at him, aghast.
“Only two teats, the female sheep. Like a woman.” He arched a thick black eyebrow. “Damn if you haven’t gone the color of blood sausage, Delacourt. Amazing, this nature business. I never suspected how taken I’d be with it all.”
“Spare me,” grunted the Earl even as he mentally lined up two teats and three sucking mouths. “But you haven’t answered my question. Jillian is nothing like Barbara. Not to your taste, I’d have wagered.” The Marquess looked him in the eye, all his usual languor gone. “I don’t expect I-can give you a reasonable answer, Del. But one thing always strikes me when I’m with her: how very full of life she is. Bubbles over with it, like a hot spring or champagne on ice. Everything fascinates her. She takes joy in things I’d forgot about or ne
ver knew. In truth, I’m delighted that Jillian doesn’t appeal to you, because in your place, I’d have swept her away before the competition lined up. Of course she may prefer one of the others or none of us. I have some hope, but no indication she cares for me any more than the rest. I only promise that you can safely entrust her to me if she accepts my suit.”
Blackstone was ten years older than he but seemed a great deal younger at the moment, fired with an exuberance Mark had not felt for longer than he could remember. Once again he sensed the same unreasonable jealousy he’d experienced with Robin.
Not because he wanted Jillian for himself, of course. She was a bad-tempered, sharp-tongued little termagant wily enough to conceal that fact from every man in London except him.
That was something to consider. The Lamb was a novelty, a three-weeks’ wonder, but sooner or later she was bound to show her true colors. For Malory’s sake, he would demand a waiting period. Ivor had a right to see the hellcat with her claws out before committing himself. “You may pay your addresses,” he said formally. “But if she accepts, I shall insist on a long, private engagement. Jillian is impetuous and likely to jump on the first offer she receives, if only to escape a guardianship she finds onerous. And for friendship’s sake, I want you to fully comprehend what you are letting yourself in for.”
So that was how the wind blew, Blackstone thought with an ironic smile. A man of the world, in tune with subtle gestures, he understood better than the Earl himself what was happening. “How much time?” he asked dryly.
“Six months,” Mark decreed, wanting a year but doubting he could get away with it.
“Six months it is. I also want her to be sure, my friend. More than I want her for myself, I want her to be happy.”
That said it all, Mark acknowledged with a slight bow.
“For now,” Ivor continued briskly, “I’ll leave you to the marauding hordes. It will not trouble me if you send them all packing, but do be kind, old dear. Young love is woefully inarticulate.”